A Runaway Train
by Mariani
Summary: Nowhere did they write how difficult it is to be human, because then someone could have warned us. Dean/Cas, slight AU. COMPLETE four-parter.
1. flood

**A/N**: My first Supernatural fanfiction ever. Can't say I like it all that much.

* * *

**Rochester, Minnesota; September**

The cravings came back slowly, steadily, like an infection.

Dean hadn't been expecting them. After fixing himself up with rehab, he'd been clean for nearly ten years. But then, he broke his nose during a case in Minnesota. He hadn't been paying attention and walked headlong into a telephone pole.

Feeling the flesh puff up made Dean think of the fourth grade, when Landon Walker asked him, "Does your dad smell smoke every time he fucks a lady now?"

Dean had run up to him, fists flying, and Landon landed a punch right in the center of his face that left him on the ground, on his back. He went to the office with the first broken nose of his life, but after they called John and he said that he was proud of his son, Dean refused to go to the hospital.

His nose turned into a bright red bulb, and every breeze stung like acid. He complained constantly, and once John tired of calling him a baby, he started giving Dean tabs of Vicodin just to shut him up.

It would have been so easy, to blame his father for everything (not that Dean would, for anything.) Because, while John had never lost himself to it – maybe it was the constant mist of beer – once was enough for Dean; he was completely seduced by those white little pills.

The day after swallowing down his first one, he took Landon by surprise on the playground and beat him until they both had blood in their mouths. Sam had been watching from the swings – and when Dean was finished, he'd looked at him and smiled horribly, with red teeth. And Sam, only six, started crying.

When he came home later, Dean was waiting for him at the door. He'd been suspended for three days, but it hardly mattered, because they'd be gone in another four, anyways.

He'd called Sam a pussy.

And for a while after that, Dean's life became bundled with these spectacular little episodes, where he was manic and the earth wouldn't stay still under his feet, and everything glowed – even Sam looking at him funny, even John driving away and leaving them again. The ruby red taillights of the Impala were like a blast of fire against his face. The stars were like a million bright, little eyes. The ground coming up sharply behind him as he fell could have been a feather pillow and he wouldn't have been able to tell the difference, laughing hysterically.

Around the seventh grade – after he lost his virginity – he started taking two at a time because Lola's eyes hadn't been glowing as he laid waste to her body, awkwardly making a place for himself inside of her; she'd looked away and her pupils were like bullet holes. And for the first time in two years he could feel exactly what he was supposed to feel.

"You bitch," he said, because he wasn't sure what he was supposed to do. She'd just bit her lip and he hated her. He hated her stupid braces, her stupid, pimply face, the stupid cupcakes on her panties. So he hit her.

Shortly thereafter, Dean started drinking, too.

It became like clockwork: take two, usually with a long swallow of beer, every twelve hours. More if he was getting laid. Once or twice he tried to stop, but it had been like barb wires dragging under his skin, and John yelling at him to stop shaking, and Sam slamming his bedroom door upstairs, and it all sounded like it was coming through a tin can. So Dean passed Go and collected his two hundred dollars, again and again, every time.

When he wasn't thinking about getting straight, he wasn't _thinking_, period. The Vicodin took that from him. It took a lot of things from him. Maybe if he'd been sober enough to notice, he would have noticed how Sam never really smiled around him. How John did his best to ignore Dean every time he talked – because Dean would always, without fail, start crying. How every time he had sex, the girl below him was just like another piece of real estate.

When he was sixteen he broke somebody's nose, and it was as if things had come full circle. He robbed a woman after taking John's shotgun from the porch and two hits of Oxy he'd lifted off of Randy Amsden, the twelfth grader. From what Dean could remember, when he'd smiled crookedly and told her she was pretty, she'd called him a monster and he hit her with the butt of the gun until she blacked out.

The sad thing about that was, John probably saw the blood at the end of his shotgun when he took it with him for a job and didn't even wonder about it. Dean could have blamed his father for that, too. He could have blamed anybody for not trying to stop him – and he almost did, after his girlfriend forced him to go to rehab on their graduation night if he wanted to stay with her (he broke up with her first, anyways.)

But Dean had spent so long hating himself for those nine years – for every terrified look on Sam's face and passive one on John's, how they both hurt him in different ways – that he hadn't bothered. He'd been too tired.

As he sat on that bench in Minnesota, the bridge of his nose swelling back up for the first time in almost a decade, he hadn't even been thinking about Vicodin when it came tumbling back from his memory. Cas had seen a strange sight as he went to heal the break – Dean stiffening, eyes deadlocked in another time, and almost raising his hands to fend off something that wasn't there.

"Apologies," said Cas, touching his hand to Dean's shoulder and having the two pieces of bone seal back together. "I realize breaking bones must be –"

"No, no. I'm, uh…" Dean started sweating. "Thanks," he said, finally.

He pushed and pushed and pushed, but still couldn't shake the feeling that he was strapped back in a passenger's seat with no escape.

* * *

The night after he broke his nose, he dreamt of his hands, hitting and hitting and tipping back pills. He woke up panting, breathless, and no matter how much he drank, he could only taste blood and poison dissolving on his tongue.

Cas was awake, watching. Dean wanted to tell Cas he couldn't pull him away, not from this, not this time. But the small twist of pain in Cas' face said he already knew, and in the morning, the sheriff called to tell them every powerline in town had been ripped out overnight.

Cas looked away when Sam raised a questioning brow at him.

* * *

**Lafayette, Louisiana; September**

Castiel had convinced himself he understood the ugliness of mankind, up until Louisiana.

They had travelled down to Lafayette right after Minnesota; Garth said something about animals screaming in a swamp and human bodies turning up in the morning, which "reeked of skunk ape," according to Sam. And there was nothing remarkable about it: an unremarkable, sweaty city, elbow-deep in an unremarkable pit of Hell – but progress dragged slower than usual in the heat, and it kept Dean restless most nights, staying up until three or four in the morning and nursing a bottle of beer.

When two weeks had passed – two weeks of the same half-dozen news articles on Sam's laptop and about eighteen variations from eyewitnesses – Dean had moved straight past the unopened Coronas on the table one night close to eleven, to Cas' corner of the room. With every motel he'd pitted out his own space, close to the door, and he was surprised when Dean stepped right into it, right up to him.

Dean said one thing: "Strip club" and his voice, as of late, had been a thin rasp of thing, with an underlying desperation that Cas couldn't name. It almost seemed to grow when he spoke that night – and frankly, the words "strip club," didn't mean much to Cas at all, but he still let Dean drive him nearly fifty miles out, not sure what he was expecting when they rolled into a gravel parking lot, under an enormous sign beaming out "BOTTOM'S UP" in glowing blue letters.

Dean was smiling at the windowless brick building across the lot, and Cas realized how much he was coming to regret this.

Inside the building itself was a foggy, single room bathed in dizzying strobe lights and a pounding dance track. Cas was struck by the noise and remembered exactly the kind of place this was meant to be, even before he saw the trashy dancers and dollar bills hanging out of their underwear.

"Go find us a table," Dean shouted before bee-lining right for the bar tucked in the corner of the room. It was easily ten minutes before he came back, booze filling his arms like groceries, and by then Cas was already too hot and desperate to ignore the dozens of hungry stares raking over him.

"Why are we here?" he asked, as Dean threw back two straight shots of vodka in a row.

"Oh, Cas." Dean only laughed. "C'mon. I know your memories of strip clubs aren't 'memorable' but we needed this. Don't you think?"

"No," Cas tried to answer, but Dean seemed intent to get drunk as fast as possible. And it bothered Cas, how strongly Dean stank of desperation, even over the rich odor of sweat, sex, and cheap perfume that hung in the air. But he focused on his hands and held his tongue.

"This is the life, isn't it?" Dean asked, after what could have been an hour. Three empty shot glasses and two empty beer bottles were in a column across the table like a soldier line.

"Dean, I don't understand. What kind of life is this?" Over Dean's shoulder, a girl climbed into the lap of a man (married, with four kids,) while two college-age kids (midterms tomorrow, didn't study an inch) by the bar drank shots from between a girl's breasts. Cas frowned.

"Don't be a prude, Cas – it's booze and women, damnit. Consider it a godsend."

"My father never intended for you to drink," Cas said defiantly, "or for these women to take your money for a glimpse at their bodies. Dean, that one over there is only _sixteen years_– "

"I'll tell you what," Dean said, pouring himself a shot. "You get one of these girls to sleep with you, then trying telling me you 'don't understand.' Because you will, Cas. Look." He indicated a girl in red lingerie a few tables over, tucking a wad of bills into her G-string. She focused on Cas, but he quickly turned from her predatory stare.

Dean whistled, pressing the lip of his glass to his mouth. "Man, talk about looking – she's getting a fucking eyeful."

When she approached their table and purred in a thick accent, "My name's Amber," Cas was bitterly reminded of Chastity. But this one, she nearly blinded him with the pain glowing off of her – a tragic story written in body glitter and black tears, laid bare even in the fleeting red, blue, and green strobe.

She curled an arm around the back of his chair. Cas could see the white powder under her nose. "He a church boy?" she asked a thoroughly-grinning Dean, who nodded. "I knew he looked the type. But, honey –" she pouted at Cas. "Well, just _looking_ at you is a sin."

Tense couldn't come close to describing what Cas was feeling, staring into her lidded eyes.

But this time, when she took one of his hands and Dean stuffed cash into the other, Cas found that he didn't resist any of. He watched her flouncing hair as she guided him to the back rooms – her movements almost depicted eagerness, but once the door to their room was locked Cas saw the glazed familiarity fall into place as she pushed him down on the bed.

"Now," she said into his ear, in what felt very rehearsed. "What name would you like me screaming tonight, baby?"

"Cas."

"Cas," she repeated in a thick voice, smiling dimly.

When she kissed him, her mouth tasted like chemicals and matte lipstick. Cas let what little memories he had of kissing guide him through the motions, latching his arms around her waist. He heard her surprise when she broke away to say, breathless, "Slow down there," but he pushed on, anyways, rolling her onto the bed behind them.

Cas touched her and pawed at her and worked her body until she was as tight as a coil, and it was an empty process with her making small, meaningless noises of encouragement in between. His mind went deceptively blank, as he shimmied Amber's panties down her hips while she chanted how ready she was; he entered her, aware of how little she felt it despite the breathy moan she uttered – and when she moved beneath him to each snap of his hips, her arcs were robotic, jagged and lost. And this close, every scar of her, every piece of her pain, roared inside his head.

(_Her mother, calling her a murderer for having an abortion._)

"Baby," she moaned with forced enthusiasm, "baby, baby, oh, you're so good."

Cas covered her painted mouth in reply and turned her head away (_her boyfriend, leaving her alone at that bus stop at two AM_) as he drove into her brutally. He pushed as fast as he could, just as desperate to escape as she was.

"Ooh," she whined around his fingers. "Not so hard, sweetie, you'll –" But Cas clamped down tighter, until his short fingernails scraped the foundation on her cheek. Her body started to twist under him, her voice a rising hum of objection under his hand, and when her arm started to punch at him, he flattened it against the bed.

(_Her sixth grade art teacher, standing too close to her._)

Her teeth sank into his palm and Cas ignored the blood (_her sixth grade art teacher, running his hands across her legs_.) She was bucking violently in protest now, screams muted; tears, muddy with mascara, pooled around his hand as he pushed their bodies flush together, until she could feel every stitch of the bed sheets along her back.

_"Pretty blond pigtails." Her sixth grade art teacher, kissing her on the forehead, on the cheek; her father, calling her a liar and – _

In a panic, Cas ripped out of her completely, falling flat on his bare ass.

"What the fuck –" she was blubbering and tugging off a stiletto to club him with as he tugged up his underwear and slacks as fast as he could. " – the fuck is wrong with you, you sick freak –"

He touched two fingers to her sweating forehead, and she fell slack against the bed.

Dean had switched to a table closer to the stage, and was sliding a five dollar bill between the breasts of a blond that crawled in front of him.

"Dean," Cas said, breathless. He steadied himself on the tabletop. "We –"

A hazy smile broke out on Dean's face. "Looks like you had a wild time there, Cas."

"Dean, listen –"

"No, no." Dean set his beer down. His eyes were glazed as they struggled to refocus on Cas. "Tell me – do you understand it now, Cas?"

Cas felt ill, but his head betrayed him by nodding. It was like a lead weight was rolling around inside his brain.

"Dean," he choked, at the precise moment a new girl was introduced to the stage and the applause from the halo of tables and chairs drowned him out. "_Dean._"

Dean stared straight ahead, drunk off cheap alcohol and twirling tassels, and Cas wondered if he was going to be sick, right there on the scummy floor.

Blindly he palmed for Dean's shoulder, and they were in the Impala in the next instant – where, taken by surprise, Dean spilled his beer in his lap.

"Son of a –!" he shouted, but Cas was already out on the gravel. He white-knuckled the heavy door with one hand.

"Cas, what the hell was _that_?" Dean demanded, ignorant to the unusual skew of Cas' body. "I know you didn't like – what, 'dens of inequity,' but what were you thinking, flying us out of there like that?"

Cas held absolutely still.

"Cas." Dean tapped his beer bottle against his thigh. "Seriously. How bad was it with Amber to make –"

And then, Cas _was_ sick; he spit a stringy mess of bile onto the gravel, hacking until he'd almost completely bent into himself. His head throbbed and wailed, and he saw Amber's art teacher smile, his terrible smile, smiling in a way no grown man should smile at an eleven year old.

"Cas, my God." Dean finally surfaced from his drunken stupor. "Jesus Christ, what's wrong? What's the matter? Cas?"

Cas listened to Dean slurred prattle, but none of it quite reached him. He balled his fists at his thighs, breath hitched, and somewhere in the pulsing building up ahead, Amber was just coming to, not sure why she'd fallen asleep in the back during such a busy night.

The Impala's heavy door fell closed behind him as he got back inside.

It was a long while of Cas staring at the dashboard before Dean said, "Never thought I'd see you getting upset over strippers, Cas." He smiled, aiming for something lighter. When Cas looked at him, what he saw wasn't desperate, it was just _Dean_, and with a streetlight struck off his glassy eyes, there was an apology in the blown out pupils, somewhere – and Cas studied it, clung to it until he was nodding, ready to go.

(_"Pretty blond pigtails."_)

It wasn't like Lucifer had said – it wasn't the ugliness of humanity.

What concerned him was, up until Louisiana, Cas hadn't understood the ugliness of _himself_.

* * *

Dean caved after a week. He went to the pharmacy in the back of a CVS the next town over while Sam shopped, and stayed in the bathroom too long.

At the next stop, a drive thru, he tried to order sixteen burgers – and after, after he'd nearly crashed twice, his wild fit of laughter never lifted, even when Sam made him get in the back.

* * *

**Louisville, Colorado; October**

A young manic depressive named Melissa Maynard hung herself one night from a wooden beam on her front porch.

Cas had watched her die from the street; her eyes were stuck wide open after she'd stopped kicking and flailing and pulling at the rope like she'd changed her mind about slipping into it. In these final moments, she'd read to him like scripture: it was a combination of depression and her cutting off her medication last year that put that noose around her neck. The entire city would later tire itself wondering what made Melissa do this, but Cas knew.

It didn't make him feel any better.

The neighbor's twelve year old son was going to be the first one to find her, and the sight of her would leave him coughing his breakfast into the gutter – Cas knew that, too, but he left her body there, anyways. He spent all night on the curb, watching her turn slowly in the noose. Melissa's entire story was a finger's touch away from unfolding in his mind, but Cas couldn't imagine brushing that close to another human being's pain, not again. He deceived himself into thinking that he knew enough about why'd she'd strug herself up.

Melissa hadn't been devout, like her mother, and would go to Hell for suffering her whole life. All because she hadn't prayed to God.

When Cas came back to the motel, Dean showed him the newspaper article on Melissa and didn't notice the clench of Cas' fists in his lap. By then Dean had changed dramatically, because while his voice was back to normal, he was talking faster about nothing, pupils wide enough to hide the green of his eyes, and when he reached for his coffee, his hip bumped the table and Cas heard the Vicodin rattle.

Sam fanned out the newspaper and moved it closer to his face, and Dean smiled with gleefulness that didn't belong. All Cas could think of, watching him, was Melissa Maynard's frozen stare.

Green.

What an ugly sight, when people thought they didn't need God.

* * *

The truth was, Dean didn't like the way the Vicodin made him feel.

He spent a lot of time at night staring at the ceiling and trying to imagine what John had seen after feeling that drop of blood on his forehead.

"It's stupid," Dean whispered one night, because he knew Cas was listening. "If the pills are supposed to be killing me, then why are they so hard to live without?"

* * *

Two weeks later, an angry ghost set a house fire in Denver.

Cas went up to the second floor and stood in the flames. He wasn't alone this time – Sam and Dean and at least a dozen others were outside, screaming for him while windows shattered and the greedy inferno grew fatter – though he could fool himself into thinking he was isolated, bathed in the roaring fire. It sank its teeth into his flesh and it caked with dark, burnt swirls, but Cas could only watch. He bent the charred fingers, the skin peeling back to bone, and rolled his head on the scorched neck, indifferent to the bite of the flame.

The trenchcoat had nearly been eaten away to only sleeves, and his hair was down to the root. It would be a few more seconds before Jimmy's entire body would be eaten by the hungry fire, but Cas gave up faster, snapping the flames out and repairing himself.

Dean had taken up cigarettes a few days earlier – and Cas hated it, because Dean only liked the way they poisoned his body. But watching the thick white smoke swell from Dean's lips made Cas wonder and wonder until he itched. The fire presenting itself that afternoon was almost like an answer to a prayer. And he couldn't even feel the heat. It clawed and tore his vessel wide open and spilled Jimmy's blood on the floor –

_Down in Louisiana, a fifty nine year old man fucked Amber while her fiancé left her a note saying he was running away with her coworker._

_Down in Hell, Melissa Maynard had been hung up on the rack for nearly four years now. Cas could hear her screaming almost every day._

No, the fire hadn't touched him, but he could still feel that.

"Cas!" Dean shouted, when they found him sitting in the front seat of the Impala. Dean couldn't quite run straight, clipping himself on the door. "What the hell was that?"

"Did you get stuck or something?" Sam asked. "Cas? What were you _doing_ up there? Are you okay?"

Cas sat back and waited for them to start driving.

At the motel, it was an evening of Sam awkwardly trying to discuss the case and Dean not saying anything back and too much silence in between. Sam gave up around eleven, after knocking one of Dean's beers onto his laptop, and even past midnight Castiel was very aware of every minute Dean lay awake. He had a thousand things he wanted to say, a million things he'd never wanted to say to anybody before, and he chose none of them.

From his bed, at last Dean whispered, "I know what you were doing back there."

Silence.

"You can't go doing stupid shit like that," he went on. By some miracle, he managed to make it sound like he didn't care. "Okay?"

"I'm not a child, Dean," Cas said, because he couldn't help it.

"Yeah. I get that. Kids don't stand in fucking _fires_, Cas. You wanna explain that or should I take a guess? ...Is it about what happened with Amber? You wanna explain _that_?"

If Cas was still there, he wouldn't know it.

"The silent treatment's not doing you justice, y'know."

"It's a lot of things, Dean. It's..." But he didn't finish; his voice almost seemed to taper against his will. He cleared his throat. "Dean, you need to...understand."

"Okay. What do I need to understand?"

"About me. I didn't..." Cas cleared his throat a second time, and when that couldn't bring the words back up, he started shaking his head frantically.

"What?" Dean insisted. But Cas was staring over Dean's shoulder, at something that wasn't there. "Cas, why can't you tell me what's wrong?"

Cas started whispering something. It was a few moments before Dean could make it out: a low and panicked, "No no no no" over and over, like a dozen "Hail Mary"s.

"Cas...?" Dean sighed and got up on an elbow. "Look. The 'all my fault' thing? I get that. I'm an _expert_ in that. And if you want to take that road, you go ahead. But I'm telling you, you're trying. That's all that matters." It fell silent almost immediately, and he took a crack at smiling, like flashing some teeth was enough to ignore how many pieces of Cas just weren't there anymore.

Dean had never bought anybody's bullshit. Especially not his own.

Eventually, when the Vicodin in Dean's system had the mercy of leading him down into sleep, Cas was forced to stare at the wall all night.

He could still smell the smoke.

**to be continued.**


	2. evacuation

When Sam found a prescription bottle in Dean's discarded jacket, Dean panicked and said they were ibuprofen for migraines.

Experiencing vertigo on solid ground became a commonplace thing, but Dean didn't think he'd ever get used to the worried look that now crossed Cas' face whenever Dean got behind the wheel. Now he made sure to drive slower and stare straight ahead.

He started ripping the labels off, too.

* * *

It wasn't clear what started it, but not long after Cas started sleeping in Dean's bed.

He had tried taking Dean's hand once before, during a case. Dean had wrenched away and looked him like he was crazy, and oh God, Cas was really starting to think he was. He thought about falling from grace a lot, because he'd collided with humanity hard, and what kind of angel was he if he'd just let Melissa putter out and die?

He remembered her eyes, unbidden, whenever Dean looked at him.

The first time Cas tried slipping in beside him, Dean kicked him. It hadn't been intentional. It was was knee-jerk response to the rush of cold on his skin, as the blankets were pulled back; it had sort of been like kicking a block of lead, and it got Dean to curse loudly and Cas to freeze with the corner of the sheet balled in his hand.

Dean sensed it, and started frantically twisting for his gun. They were at the back of the motel and away from the streetlights, facing some long expanse of a dark forest – seeing anything in their room was like staring into a pitch black box.

"Dean." Cas' familiar voice subdued Dean's anxiety in a rush. His wanted to ask if Cas was okay, but the way Cas' breathing was labored gave him a pretty good perspective on things, even under a thick layer of night.

"Hey..." He rose up, fumbling blindly for the bedside lamp, but a hand closed around his wrist.

"Cas?" he whispered, perplexed. There was no answer. "Cas, what's wrong?"

The silence of the room was thick, fraught, and for the life of him Dean couldn't figure it out – until Cas pressed into him, with a desperation in the way his body curled around Dean, the way he was almost begging for contact.

"She's dead because of me," Cas said once, twice, too many times, into every empty space he could find. "It's not just Amber, Dean, i-it's the girl from Colorado, Dean, Melissa, I let her die, I watched her die and I did nothing, nothing." His speech faded out at the curve between Dean's neck and shoulder, abating into small, breathy whispers, until the breath was tearing in and out of his mouth.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Dean almost couldn't figure out that the small, panicked tone was attached to _him_.

"I've been corrupted, Dean." The inconsistency in Cas' voice sent it coming in pieces. "Can't you see? I want to save you all, but you aren't letting me…I'm a disgrace…I…"

"Cas. What's going on?"

"You'll understand, right?" Cas whispered, ragged. "You'll understand if I need this, right?"

Dean noticed at that moment the way Cas' body felt under his hands – vulnerable, more human. He didn't feel like an angel should, like a tank or a suit of steel armor. When his chest expanded to take a breath, he still didn't feel quite big enough to fit the shape he had once filled, even with all of him tangled up in Dean's arms. Like layers had been ripped away.

"Yeah," he whispered. "It's okay. You're okay."

But he didn't understand, not really – because why would Cas come to him, when all Dean could think was that he'd been the one who'd done this, who'd worn Cas down to something that was only half of what he'd once been. That was what he'd done to Sam, because the Vicodin was cruel and closed him off, and Dean had almost had to lose him for it.

Under the covers, Cas separated himself from Dean, so they only touched by the barest whisper of their legs. After Dean had fallen asleep, though, Cas thoroughly wrap around him, stomach-to-back. He buried himself as close to Dean as he possibly could, and where his fingers stroked across Dean's chin, he felt drying tears.

They had both let themselves bleed a little, that night.

* * *

Dean had only overdosed once, when he was sixteen and had had a bad run in with too much blow. A prostitute found him and stole his wallet before calling the paramedics.

The way Sam told it, when the hospital called to tell John about the overdose, he'd hung up and said, "Thank God."

Dean hated that he'd still loved him anyway.

* * *

Cas was shrinking.

Not literally – but each time he pushed himself against Dean (which was more frequent now than ever,) Dean's arms fell a greater distance to close around him than he thought. And it became more often now, a routine of theirs, for Dean to awake and open up the sheets for Cas to crawl in beside him. Sometimes he didn't even open his eyes; he just woke up long enough to feel Cas' warmth looming over him from the cold room, and he'd be peeling back the blankets like a reflex.

It didn't bother Dean – not at first, because Cas wasn't another man. He wasn't even _human_, not really. But Sam kept giving them strange looks in the morning, and Cas' stare was always waiting for Dean out of the corner of his eye. And the more it happened, the more he noticed it, and the more he noticed it, the more he noticed – well, _Cas_. Things Dean had never noticed before.

How dark his lashes against his pale face. How the breath on his lips almost seemed to tremble right before he was about to cry. The gravity of his deep blue eyes. The rare crinkle at the corner of his eyes whenever he smiled. Small, tiny, insignificant things Dean didn't expect to find himself thinking about at all odd hours of the night, with Cas pressed up along his back.

Things he found oddly..._endearing_.

If only Cas' pain was in the details, too. But it wasn't; it was marked clearly all over him, like the ink of a tattoo. Even Sam noticed; he came to Dean whenever Cas was out, and the question was the same. "Is he doing alright?"

Of course, Dean was shrinking, too. What was left of him, anyways, was still slowly ebbing away, at his own hands, where he shook those damned white pills out into. They left pieces of themselves along the way, he and Cas both, like breadcrumbs (even though, in the end, they got lost anyways.) A slice of strength in Sheboygan. A pearl of trust in Boise. A shard of heart in Pasadena.

Cas had said a long time ago that he'd made an exception for Dean. Dean was beginning to wonder if he was doing the same. Years of addiction, years of seeing the absolute worst of people, people who dug into their arms for phantom bugs and sold their parents' wedding china for a hit, should have left him numb to the tears, numb to the pain that radiated off of Cas like steam. And _yet_.

"Am I too soft?" he'd asked once, and aside from a strange look, Sam said, "_You?_" and Dean figured that was an answer enough.

Dean had watched tears roll down Cas' cheeks for the first time, and Cas got used to the feeling of warm blood on his skin, and Vicodin rattling beside him when they walked.

And above it all – _despite_ it all – they kept moving.

* * *

"We should go to the beach."

"Mmm. Why's that, Cas?" Dean murmured, the heat making him sleepy.

"Because," Cas answered, equally sluggish, "it feels like it's been too long. Last I felt the sand under my feet, the Nords were casting off."

"Long time, then?"

"Yes. And." Cas gradually undid his tie. "I take it you don't have that many opportunities to go."

"Never really interested me. Too cold, too much sand in the crack of your ass – that kind of thing."

"Ah," said Cas, turning the blue silk over in his hands, and the conversation peacefully lulled.

They watched the flow of the sunlight overhead fleck with dust particles, fading in and out like billions of winking eyes. Dean reached for it again, and the dust parted like a school of fish around his fingers. The evening outside was stunning, movie-like in its perfection through the window. Sunbeams were spotlights streaking through to the air; ripe shades of red rimmed the gorgeous autumn horizon Beside him, Cas sighed, and it was lovely how content he sounded.

"Been a while," Dean murmured, after some time. "Been a while since I felt this warm." Abruptly his mouth curled into a peculiar smile, and he sang, "_And anytime you feel pain, hey Jude, refrain – don't carry the world upon your shoulders._"

Cas turned, curious.

"My mom used to sing that to me, when I was upset as a kid," Dean explained, and they were just close enough that Cas could trace the arc of Dean's freckles where his smile touched. He stared at Dean with mystified wonder, and when Dean nudged his cheek back against the pillow, with the patterns of gold spilling across his jaw, he was practically _glowing_. And Cas couldn't help it. Dean's words "_personal space_" from ages of spoke loudly in Cas' head, but just wondering when he'd get a chance like this again slid his hand into Dean's before he could think twice.

"Cas," Dean said automatically, and there was a tense pause. But he didn't open his eyes. And when his fingers, at last, curled around Cas', it was so openly affectionate that it should have hitched the breath in Cas' throat like it did Dean's.

But the bitterness was faster. Cas couldn't feel the significance of holding Dean's hand – because, once Sam came back, that same hand would go fishing in Dean's pocket for his orange prescription bottle, and his ten hour sobriety from Vicodin would be washed away with two pills chased down by a sip of water from the bathroom tap.

He pulled Dean's hand closer (like that would change anything.) At the base of each fingertip was a callous, and the skin was old for somebody under forty, but Cas marveled it anyways. Feeling the lazy strokes of of Cas' thumb, Dean was fighting another smile.

"Strange, isn't it?" Cas breathed; his voice was sudden in the calm.

"Hmm?"

"That we...that we can only enjoy each other's company when you don't take Vicodin."

Cas' breath – or perhaps it was what he'd said – raised the hairs on the back of Dean's neck. And he tried. He did. He tried to ignore just how hard it collided with him – but he still felt the pain in every shocked inch of his body.

He said nothing.

"I've tried so hard to do you right, Dean," Cas whispered, voice thick. "What…what if it's not good enough?"

Dean pretended he'd fallen asleep, until Cas' hand unwound from his and the moment was officially ruined. He rolled onto his side and squeezed his eyes hard, or else the tears might've fallen.

Later, that night, he never did manage to sleep, anyways – he lay awake until dawn, his stomach loudly crying out for more pills.

* * *

Sometimes at night, Cas secretly wished he'd met Dean in the line at a supermarket on a Sunday afternoon. Instead of in Hell.

And it wasn't that Dean wished he'd never met Cas at all, but he'd always wish it was in any other life. Where they were two college students who borrowed the Sharpies they used to write their numbers on each others' arms, or strangers at a diner whose first conversation ever was about a seafood dish they both liked, or businessmen who accidentally flagged down the same cab after work. Where there was no heaven or Hell, no angels or demons or Vicodin or even Dean himself.

He almost told Cas, outside sitting on the hood of the Impala. With winter hitting like this, the cold was closing in around them like a fist. It was snowing and with the case freshly closed, these were the moments Dean felt untouchable. It used to be that it had been so easy to breathe, and forget.

Tonight it was mostly staring into the distance, searching. He couldn't remember if he _was_ even breathing.

"Are you alright?" Cas asked, his lips and face pink from the chill. Snowflakes stuck to his eyelashes like tiny diamonds, and he was profoundly beautiful.

Dean stared at him for a long minute. "God." There were already tears in his eyes, and he knew he wouldn't be able to finish. But he almost felt like he _had_ to. And it was all right there, all of it – he wanted to tell Cas everything, about the pills, how Dean was imperfect and not good enough for Cas, for anybody. The words firmly shouted within Dean, and he said, "Sometimes – Cas, sometimes I wish we'd…"

Cas waited, empathic, but Dean couldn't, because seeing Cas like this, awash in moonlight with snow in his hair, it was too much. He wasn't damaged goods, not like Dean, and he didn't want to ever break Cas into pieces; he wanted Cas to stay as big as the Chrysler Building. Big enough to call himself whole.

"I – Cas, you don't –"

He sounded like he was talking through a tunnel. But Cas was shaking his head before Dean had even decided not to finish. He put his hand on Dean's shoulder, being very clear without even talking. And Dean's mouth stopped working to find his words. The softness of Cas' eyes made everything surrounding them just fade out into static.

"…Thanks," Dean said softly.

It was like the world had been narrowed down to just that parking lot. Cas toed an Enochian symbol into the grounded snow, and Dean swore they were invincible.

* * *

Cas had medicated Dean better than pills ever could.

Just a week later, he was back to three a night.

Dean had tried keeping his relapse a secret. But sometimes he'd wake up and find Cas staring up at the ceiling, like he wanted to fly away – and he wouldn't look at Dean, _refused_ to look at him, and it brought Dean to tears, because Cas knew. And it was hurting him, too.

* * *

He'd stopped making eye contact, but Cas watched Dean now more than ever, checking for tremors, the outlines of bottles in his pockets, unfilled cracks around his smile.

Even if it was the chemicals, Dean held it together better than Cas ever could.

Not that Cas helped him at all. He avoided Dean's eyes and was bitterly reminded of how he was a coward. And more significantly, how he'd failed Dean.

Every night, he imagined ripping out his own wings.

* * *

They were on a case in northern California when the rain hit.

It was the kind of rain that came down in heavy droves and sounded like it was marching across the tin roof of their motel room. The entire town was subdued under sheets for four days, and Castiel took to watching it.

Other angels were like cats when it came to the rain, but he'd fallen in love with it long ago, and spending nearly two thousand years apart from it made it that much more satisfying. He sat out on the steps and saw the no-name town's edges blur in the storm, like a black-and-white movie. A few times he stood out in it, and felt the water flow over his skin.

It smelled like the earth.

For the most part, the Winchesters remained inside the motel room, the curtains fluttering once or twice. Nothing could amount to Cas' surprise, then, when the door thudded open middle of the third day, and Dean joined him out in the hall.

He leaned over the railing – drenched from the gutters' overflow, and effectively soaking the sleeves of his shirt. Cas sat back, perplexed.

Dean turned to him then and said, "We should go into town."

The roads were covered in an inch of water, sometimes more, and completely deserted as they drove. All of the fields had been churned into muddy banks that bled onto the asphalt. Miraculously the radio still got a signal, and a Skynyrd song determinedly bleated on. Dean softly sang along, as he drove them further down what was really the town's only road, past the houses where, faintly through the rain sloshing down the windows, Cas saw the glow of lights.

Where they were going wasn't clear, much like the world outside. Dean was grossly cheerful. After the radio announcer, voice awash with static, encouraged his listeners to "Rock on!", "Gimme Shelter" came on, and Dean slapped the wheel to the beat. Cas felt terrible, for assuming Dean was just high.

He felt worse, knowing it was probably true.

Dean pulled over about half a mile outside of town, where there was nothing. Not even fields. A lone streetlight shined down, like a spotlight, and Dean got out.

"Dean," Cas said, getting out. Instantly the rain beat down on him, and he was soaked all over again. It was falling harder than before; the water felt colder, and he knew it must have been getting later.

Miraculously, in the middle of the road, Dean was _dancing_. Turning really, facing the indistinguishable gray sky. He held his arms out and soon he didn't move, standing peacefully in the crazed downpour.

"Dean, what are we doing out here?" Cas screamed to be heard, still huddled by the car. Dean didn't stir. "_Dean!_"

And Dean jolted awake, whirling to face him. He smiled (at at distance, it looked smeared by the endless streams of rain) and beckoned Cas out, but Cas shook his head, and finally Dean came his way.

"Cas. Cas!" he yelled, over the beating tempo of the rain. He tugged Cas' hand once he was close enough and pulled him under the streetlight. The look crossing the angel's face could only be described as fear dashed with confusion, and Dean couldn't resist laughing. "Don't tell me you never jumped around in puddles as a kid!"

Cas frowned. "It doesn't rain much in Heaven, Dean! The dead usually prefer the sun and –"

He was cut off as Dean spun him around like they were a pair of ballroom dancers. Cas' eyes widened and for a second he swore they were going to fly off the edge of the earth. But in that moment he saw Dean's face across from his younger than he'd ever seen, younger than all those times at four o'clock in the morning, and the fear unshackled itself from him outright. Cas felt Dean's hands slip away from his and his body turn and turn like a planet in orbit, and he let out a tremendous laugh even as he fell backwards into the ankle-deep puddle.

"Whoa, are you –" A huge arc of water soared up into Dean's face, and he stepped back, spluttering. When his vision cleared, Cas was grinning gleefully.

"You son of a bitch!" Dean laughed, splashing Cas in response, and it went back and forth between them, like they were a pair of schoolchildren. No cars dared come down the road and it could have lasted hours, without either of them noticing.

The exhaustion set in after a while, and as Dean stopped to catch his breath, he glanced up to ask Cas if they should head back – and everything inside of him changed in that one, stunning moment. Because when he looked at Cas, what looked back was so human that Dean's voice abandoned him altogether. Cas' smile reached his eyes, and they were sparkling the way the ocean sparkles in sunlight, and it was astounding, what a pretty thing he was in the rain, how he burned so bright in the cold dark.

When Dean sealed the space between them and kissed Cas, they came together like they'd been waiting for it their entire lives. Cas nearly tore away from surprise when his mind was able to swing back from the shock, but he couldn't imagine anything but the softness of Dean's lips, the way Dean trembled, too, how he was pulling Cas to him like he was terrified of letting go. It was unfair and it was so perfect that it made both of them hurt.

"Please," Dean whispered in small, stuttering breaths between each kiss. "Please, Cas, oh God, please, please…"

Cas couldn't fathom what it meant, and bent further into Dean's arms to soothe his fear.

They burned out slowly, until they weren't kissing and just breathing hard, joined by their foreheads and bodies so thoroughly tangled that it was difficult to determine ends and beginnings. Dean gasped Cas' name a dozen times, like he was trying to start a sentence but couldn't finish, and Cas just took deep, wobbly breaths and tried not to get carried off by the storm.

"Dean," he whispered finally – and God, he'd regret everything about it, how he made the moment crumble in between his fingers with just one word.

Dean left Cas stripped of everything and alone, as he ran to the Impala and took off down the dark, wet street. Just like that, until the rain swallowed the glowing red taillights whole. Later, when the rain cleared, Cas would finally get the courage to go back to the motel room and find Dean in bed with a hooker – and no amount of accusations would get him to admit that it had been him who'd blown out the window that'd sent the girl running and screaming – but right now, he was like a butterfly pinned to a corkboard and nothing mattered, as he stared into the black, depthless mouth of the storm. Dean had been speeding like he expected Castiel to follow, and it occurred to Cas that maybe he should, but everything was frozen, halted, an interruption that tasted like whiskey, salt, and bitter regret.

Cas stood in the rain and let God wash away his sins.


	3. full circle

**A/N**: This is definitely the longest chapter. (It has a happy ending, I _promise_.)

* * *

Dean had thought about kissing Cas before.

He would have been horrified with himself normally, but at first it was only when he was drunk and with that, he always convinced himself it had been the beer talking, come morning.

Soon, though, it was in broad daylight, when he was driving with Sam in the Impala, or getting some cold coffee in a roadside convenience store, or sitting in a diner at two AM. And it shouldn't have been a big deal, because technically Castiel wasn't even another man, or even another human, not really. But it was. Because then it started keeping him up some nights, and even spilling over into his dreams like runoff; Dean started thinking about what caressing Cas' cheek would feel like under his thumb, what Cas' hands would feel like entwined with his, if they'd be rough and worn, if they'd hold on tight; he started thinking about it so often that he had to set little rules for himself.

1. Whenever Cas stood too close to him, close enough to feel the angel's breath, he wouldn't think about the way his heart fluttered in his chest, like a set of wings.

2. Whenever they were hunting and he had to show Cas how to hold a gun properly again, giving him the same "cock it back and _then_ shoot" speech, he wouldn't think about the brush of their fingers over the triggers, or the dark blue eyes sharp and questioning in his periphery.

3. Whenever Cas' lips grew pale from the cold, Dean wouldn't think about warming them under his own. He even started to burn himself with his cigarette under his coat when the thought so much as occurred. He wouldn't let himself imagine grabbing Cas' wrists, and backing him against a wall when Sam wasn't looking.

Thinking about it always made him feel incredibly dirty – and he always thought it was ironic, that envisioning kissing an angel felt like a sin. But after they finally _did_ kiss, so thoroughly and deeply it had left Dean spiraling, in the shower, no matter how hard he scrubbed, he just couldn't get Cas off his wet skin. The feeling of Cas' hands (they had been soft, actually) was like a permanent tattoo on Dean, as he scraped and scraped until blood was mixing in the drain.

It was no use because, but he tried. It almost felt like he had to.

* * *

Two days after the rain finally stopped and they went out for breakfast, Dean stared into his coffee and Cas out the window. The waitress winked at Cas when he was ordering, and he kept checking the corner of his vision for a reaction from Dean, stupidly thinking he'd find anything. And for some reason, seeing Dean's face devoid of any change, how he was like a stone, like an impenetrable wall, was what made Cas announce that he was going to fly the rest of the way.

They didn't see him for three days.

Dean started carrying a gun again at all times, and Cas stopped sleeping in Dean's bed – he had a good impression he wasn't welcome anymore, anyways – and stopped hanging around at night. Their room was broken into a week later, and all of their money and booze was taken.

"Why weren't you around?" Sam asked in the Impala the morning after, turning toward the backseat. But Cas had been fixed in another time for a while, and he stared at the floor rather than answer.

"Cas? Hello? You alright?" Ignoring Sam's hand waving in front of his face, Cas' eyes flicked to the rearview mirror at the same moment Dean's did. And Dean didn't bother hiding his smirk.

The glass of the mirror exploded in a second, and the Impala made a sharp right to the side of the road while Sam shouted in alarm. But Dean couldn't hear any of that, or notice the flecks of glass in the side of his face. He turned in his seat.

"_Enough_ with that," Dean said coldly, though it didn't even seem to touch Cas. He simply vanished, his wingbeats blowing a departing gust of air against Dean's face.

Under his breath Dean muttered, "Yeah, fuck you, too," as he restarted the car – it was either that or feeling a pain much deeper than the glass in his cheek, and he chose to pull back onto the highway without a word.

"Is something going on between you two?" Sam demanded when the reached a gas station, though Dean slammed the door before the question was completed. Out the window, Sam added, "Because I get the feeling you weren't just mad about the mirror."

Dean scowled at the gas pump nozzle in his hand. "It's nothing," he said dryly, and how he really wished that was true.

* * *

There was a time, when Dean had practically turned Cas human. Even before they'd kissed, or Cas lay beside him each night.

It certainly wasn't a simpler time because, granted, for a human, Castiel was rather rusty. He understood bigger concepts, like sarcasm and eating – both departments Dean specialized in – and computers, but, in order to become a hunter, Dean had to teach Cas some specifics, like the proper wrist movement when showing an ID badge – the _right side_ up – how to drive the Impala, and how to lie and make it believable. Cas was a fair student, though sometimes he slipped and asked them if they should kill a thirteen year old witness who wasn't giving good responses, or accidentally shot himself through the waistband of his pants in a crowded mall. It definitely turned heads, but in the end Dean could only smile to himself.

There were other things that came from their little roadtrips, like Cas having his first sip of coffee in a little coffeehouse in Arizona – and spitting it out, effectively drenching four horrified people. He also learned what dry-cleaning and dry-cleaning bills were during that little experience.

He learned from Dean at a seaside motel that they stayed at in San Francisco that hearing the sound of a woman "crying" in the neighboring room at one in the morning was perfectly normal, though he never really understood why (or why Dean thought it was so hilarious.) The next morning, he also learned what condoms were when he found half of one stuck to the bottom of his shoe.

He learned that decapitation was allowed on TV, but sex wasn't. Even Dean couldn't explain that.

Their days off were the best, when they took Cas with them to sports games – he loved those the most, if not getting confused about how worked up Sam got over men hitting a ball with sticks – concerts, or just spending the day lazing around in a motel room. Once, during an off-day in New York, Cas flew to the New York City library and spent all afternoon reading on the second floor. When he came back with a library card and eight books in his arms, Dean was more entertained by Cas telling him about the librarian in the tight shirt who'd called him "sweetie" and wrote her number on the bookmark in his copy of _War and Peace_ (strangely, the bookmark was gone the next morning.)

In Colorado, Sam and Dean tried and failed to teach him how to rollerskate, which consisted mostly of Cas hitting his knees on the hardwood floor and crashing into the rink's padded walls. After he got knocked over by an eight year old with in-lines, Dean put his arm around his waist and didn't let go. At the concession stand behind the rink, the girl working smiled warmly at the two of them and Sam elbowed Dean beneath the counter while ordering. He ignored them both.

Things like this would have gotten Castiel in trouble back home. Normally, being cut off from Heaven except to do their slave work would have bothered him, but what scared him more was how much he felt like he didn't need it anymore, that bungee that connected him to Heaven. And the nights that he'd sit up awash with homesickness, without fail he'd hear Dean say, "Cas, you okay?" or just feel Dean's presence, awake, behind him, and it'd overwhelm how _loved_ he'd feel.

Even after he started coming back to the motel, he didn't dare approach Dean's bed. He sat in the corner of the room, on the floor. He wouldn't hear any voice at all, even when he knew Dean was awake, too. He didn't feel homesick, either. He just felt alone.

* * *

**Albuquerque, New Mexico; January **

When she first walked up to him, the girl said that her name was Candice or Candy or something thereof. Dean had been making a habit in these past few weeks of sleeping with as many women as possible – he probably knew why, too, but he refused to think about that.

Her teeth were crooked and she laughed way too loud at his empty flirting. But she spoke with a sultry voice that matched the swing of her hips as she took him to the back rooms, and she didn't ask questions when, between the flux of their lips sloppily meshing together, he breathed for her to lie on her stomach.

"This good?" she asked and sounded like she genuinely wondered what he thought.

These rooms were a lot worse for wear than the ones at Bottom's Up, with a whole manner of stains and probably diseases to accommodate them on the bare cot, but Dean's common sense was buried underneath Vicodin and beer and hormones.

All he said was, "Stay quiet," and she obeyed and spread her legs for him. Tugging her panties off, Dean was almost repulsed at how compliant she was. He liked the chase. He liked it when they teased him. But there was no effort here. It was too easy.

Cas had teased him, in his own way, and tested him, and forced him to rethink everything he had once believed just by being –

_No_. No thinking.

Dean almost didn't want to, but he fucked Candy/Candice/whatever anyways. And she didn't talk, not a peep, though she kept making these small, breathless noises that he guessed were supposed to be moans or something – not that he was really convinced or cared, since he barely got off, which meant she was even further behind in that race.

He probably felt it a lot less than she did; hilariously, it seemed his cock had almost gone numb. (Overuse, maybe?) She'd had her cheek against the bed, and the entire time she kept sneaking glances up at him through the dyed hair fanned out across her face. And Dean had tried not look at her, but once or twice he did – and each time rich pleasure feathered out across every inch of his body. Because one look at her eyes, a deep, familiar shade of blue, and he was too horny to care that he was picturing Cas underneath him.

"You were good," she told Dean after, robotic. "Really good. You sure you don't want another?"

"Don't think I could handle that."

"Who's Cas?" she asked.

He froze, hand locked on his fly. And when she laughed at what must have been the look on his face, even if she didn't sound mean, he wanted to kill her anyways.

"Honey," she giggled, "I get a dozen clients a week saying somebody else's name, so no worries. Don't even realize it."

"Uh-huh."

"Just wondering, is all. Is it your wife?

Dean zipped his jeans up after catching his finger and making it bleed. He had never regretted a lay as much as he was regretting this one.

"You shouldn't go sticking your nose in other people's business," he said coldly.

"Whoa." Finally, _finally_, that stupid, coral pink smile dropped from her face. "Calm down, hun, I was just –"

"_Shut. Up_." He looked down at her, anger flowing through his entire body like lava. Candy/Candice stared up at him from the bed, and she at least had the mercy of looking terrified. Dean didn't realize just how tightly his fist was coiled in the pocket of his jacket, how he was imagining grinding his knuckles into her nose job and fucking up her whole, plastic face.

"L-look, I'll, uh...c-clearly that was sensitive subject. I'm sorry."

Her dark blue eyes were wide, wet, and horrified because of him, and that was all it took to let the one memory of Cas he preferred to forget come blasting into his mind.

Dean ended up getting dragged out by security, in tears.

Sam was waiting for him in the motel room when Dean got back, wide awake at three AM. And pissed as hell.

"You should be in bed, Sammy," was all Dean said, heading for the bathroom. But Sam had the advantage of being sober, and blocked his path.

"Yes, I should," he said. "And so should you."

Dean didn't met his eye. "Mmm."

"Instead," Sam said, "you up and vanish on me in the middle of the night, and I spend the last two hours thinking you were _dead_." There was a beat of silence (like Dean was going to answer) before Sam burst. "_Well?_"

"I was out," Dean said. "Can I please shower now?"

"_Out._" Sam uttered a rueful laugh. "_Look_ at you, Dean. Look at yourself, and don't tell me you were 'out.' Because we both know what that really means."

"_Yeah!?_" Dean exploded suddenly, taking Sam (and himself) by surprise. "And what _does_ that _really_ mean, Sam? Yes, I left, and _yes_, I got high and got laid, the fucking _works_, and _yes_, I'm a wreck. _So what?_ I break down and we have TLC 'til I'm all better!? Grow up, Sam. Grow. _Up_."

They stared at each other, like mirrors in a funhouse: one sober, one trashed, one mortified, one furious. Carefully, Sam cleared his throat, bracing his shoulders as if preparing to be slapped. In a way, he almost was.

"You can't do this, Dean." he said, choked. "Not again. Not to me."

Eyes welling, Dean whispered, "Sammy...I'm –" and that was it, because what could he really say? _I'm sorry for becoming the person you hate all over again? I'm sorry for letting myself need drugs again? I'm sorry for not letting you help? For letting you down and lying to you and all of the secrets?_

Sam looked at him like he expected him to finish, and it was sort of a punishment since they both knew Dean couldn't. It was a thick minute of silence, until he said shakily, "I'm uh, I'm gonna get some air," and left.

Behind him, Cas said softly, "Dean, please –"

Dean turned and swung, and his arm cut through empty space. But stupidly he stared where Cas had just been, almost hoping that the flapping wings and faint draft that had hit him hadn't actually happened, hoping that Cas was still standing there and...and, Dean didn't know. And _anything_. With anyone at all.

But they were gone. He'd pushed them all away.

* * *

**Dallas, Texas; February**

When Dean tried to start drinking again, he had nearly choked on the beer as it crawled down his throat.

He wasn't even entirely sure it even _was_ beer – it was thick like tar, and tasted about the same, too, a heavy, chemical sludge in his mouth. At first, he wondered if maybe it'd expired, or if beer even expired at all, until he tried the next one, and the next one, with the same results and then some. And no matter how much he scrubbed his mouth with water, juice, brushed his teeth, the poisonous taste plastered his tongue like paste.

Overcome with fear of what the slop might do to him if it stayed in his body, he eventually forced himself to vomit. The onslaught of tears that came with the gagging only made it that much easier to break down into full-blown crying – and Dean couldn't recall a time he'd felt more pathetic than kneeling on the scummy bathroom floor, gripping the toilet seat, and just shaking with sobs. Not the time his father kicked him out weeks before graduation, and Dean spent a month at a halfway house (his roommate stole his stuff and blew town after just eight days.) Not the time in junior year he was mugged by his dealer and the guy's friends, and he lay in an alley for hours in nothing but his underwear. Not when he blacked out and hit his head on the stairs at school, and Sam, then ten years old, had nightmares for a week.

No. Nothing could quite amount to this.

When his legs eventually fell asleep, he'd been sitting on them so long, Dean eventually willed himself to stand. Without his pills, his mind had nowhere left to go, and he could only stand for a moment until he realized just who was capable of this, and hot rage shot through his body like a jolt of electricity.

Flushing the toilet, he rushed back out into the room. Sam was, gracefully, asleep, but Cas was huddled in the same place he had been for the last few days – and the moment their eyes met, from the rawest place inside him, fury overcame Dean like a suffocating riptide.

"You did this, didn't you?" Dean demanded, livid as he trudged over. "You made the booze disgusting, you turned it into poison or whatever because you, you, you _knew _–"

"Dean, calm d–" But just the sound of Cas' voice hit Dean where he was still tender, the one thing he didn't want to think about right now, and he slapped Cas almost like a reflex. His hand throbbed but mercifully it did something, as Cas touched his face in shock.

"You listen," Dean whispered, choking slightly. Then he slugged Cas again, and it resonated hard on the angel, who fell back a step. "You don't get to just go around messing with my shit. You are not allowed to touch _anything_ of mine, _ever_, and I swear –" Cas opened his mouth, and when Dean punched him this time, blood beaded at the corner of Cas' lip. "– if I find one thing out of place again, you won't see us again. Understand?"

Cas didn't answer – pieces of him seemed to be missing, and Dean balled his fists tightly. He wanted to beat Cas for ever making him like this – _weak_ – and he wanted the hot tears smarting at the corners of his eyes to come swelling out, and he wanted to grab Cas and just run, just keep running and running. But all of that, everything, was drowned out by the roar of blood pounding in his ears. So instead, Dean yanked Cas forward by the collar of his coat, and said, voice acidic, "_Understand?_"

It was a small push. But already on the edge of the ravine. So it was enough.

He swore he saw fire, blistering in Cas' eyes as he seized Dean's wrists and spun him, as easily as he were a limp dishrag, around. Dean's back cracked against the wall and he let out a yell.

Cas' hands seized Dean's shirt, and he rushed toward Dean, as fast and deadly as floodwaters. "_Wait_," Dean cried in terror because he was sure, once Cas reached him, he'd be dead. He'd get what he deserved, for being a stupid, selfish bastard.

By some miracle, Sam didn't stir an inch. But Cas stopped, a hair's breath away, frozen; still furious, still panting. And when Dean met his eye, he saw it there again; something _huge_, like it was way too great to be allowed in one person. Something huge and _hurt_.

"Cas?" Dean whispered.

A beat of silence. A beat of Cas' eyes, widening, as if realizing what he'd done. A beat of Dean swallowing, and lifting a shaking hand.

Wing fluttered, and his hand was reaching for vacant space.

Dean could narrowly see the ground before his body went slack. All he remembered was the choking breath he took, and the tremendous emptiness bottom out inside of him, before going down into the dark.

Sometimes he forgot that Cas was a hurricane disguised as man. But sometimes Cas forgot, too.

* * *

When Dean awoke – cold, and on the floor – Sam was in the bathroom, showering. So Dean, in spite of his pounding head, cried, until he choked.

They didn't see Cas for weeks.

This time was different. Or at least it felt that way, to Dean. Sam didn't mention anything – about anything, including anymore of the "outings" Dean took in the middle of the night – but Dean was painfully aware of the empty corner of the room every morning. And, as the days grew into weeks, grew into months, so did the empty space beside him, as well. Waking up to Cas, his dark hair flat against his head from the pillow, felt like a luxury lost. Waking up to Cas in the middle of the night, waking up from a nightmare and just _knowing_ Cas was there, awake no matter what – it plagued Dean until he was sure he'd break.

He didn't sleep with another stripper. He didn't sleep with anyone; eventually, when he left the motel he just sat in a park all night, or in a bus shelter, usually high on something harder than Vicodin. These days, it wasn't enough. He could score Oxy for cheap in virtually any city, and heroin, too, if he was lucky – not that he really _liked_ smack. (Not that he really liked Vicodin either, but it wasn't about what he liked.)

A few days later, in California, Dean discovered Opana, and quit Oxy. It was expensive, though, and he couldn't hustle up enough for the $300 tablets. So. He stuck with Vicodin.

In a sick way, he could have been _proud_ of himself.

Two months passed, and not a peep from Cas. Or Sam. Sam hardly spoke anymore – at least not to Dean. He'd smile when they questioned cute girls (who smiled primarily at Dean, even with the bruises under his eyes) and even laughed once and awhile when someone was particularly clever. But he didn't really talk to Dean, and Dean knew that was mostly his fault. He knew it was mostly because all that there was left to say was "Please stop," and he wouldn't, and Sam knew that.

Three months went by, with nothing. Dean stopped going out. Vicodin was hardly working anymore, except to destroy him. Once, when he popped a tab into his mouth, he spit it right back out into his hand and stared at it. It was white, in the shape of an oval, with a horizontal groove running across the middle. It was small. It was nothing.

And it had ruined his life.

Sam did most of the hustling now. Not that they really needed the money, except for $40 nights at the motels. Dean hardly ate. He hardly did anything at all.

Four months. Sam finally cracked. "Dean, you need to stop this. You're not _you_ anymore."

Dean, in the same position he'd been for the last two days, didn't stir.

"Dean...you're scaring me. The Vicodin was bad, but _this_ – you never do anything anymore. You're not talking. I haven't seen you move since Monday." A significant pause. "_Dean_."

"What?" he murmured.

"This isn't Vicodin," Sam said softly. "Is it?"

Dean didn't answer.

"What is it, Dean? Is it Oxy? Did something happen to you?"

Dean tried to hold still. He didn't even dare breathe.

"Talk to me," Sam pleaded, in a thick voice that warned he was on the verge of tears and, very slowly, Dean closed his eyes.

"I'm sorry."

"I don't wanna hear that," Sam whispered. "I don't want you to be sorry, Dean. I want you to tell me so we can get you _help_."

Feeling helpless, and worthless, and weak, and crushingly guilty, Dean said feebly, "I can't, Sammy."

It went quiet, long enough that anyone else would've thought Sam left. But Dean knew his brother. Anybody stupid enough to love him would be stupid enough to stay, even after all of that.

Because, as it turned out, Sam wasn't stupid at all.

Quietly, he said, "Is it Cas?"

Dean heard himself choke. And that was all it took, really. His body broke out with dry sobs – he was too far gone for tears – as Sam sat beside him, and Dean couldn't pull away.

When he woke up, he swallowed two Vicodin. But Sam said "Good morning," for the first time in weeks – and damnit, it was _something_.

The next morning, Cas was standing by the Impala, staring out at the road.

* * *

For two hours, the Winchesters – mostly Sam; Dean stared at him, expression an unreadable mix of relief and confusion and _fear_ – grilled him, on _where the hell you've been_. Not that he really answered. He avoided eye contact, played with his coat, and eventually they gave up. Probably dismissed it as cryptic angel bullshit.

Except it wasn't.

And Cas wasn't an angel anymore.

Not that he told them that. Not that he said, "Dean, the archangels got a hold of me. I didn't run from you. They said, because you've made an angel consider blasphemy, that they're going to eliminate you. Which you haven't. But you're still in danger." Not that he said, "Dean, Sam, I was forced to choose between Heaven and humanity, and I chose you." Not that he said, "Dean, Sam. I fell. I walked from Illinois to here. I'm human." Not that he said, "Dean, I'm sorry." Not that he said (maybe they'd find it funny), "At least I can't hurt you too bad anymore." Not that he said, tears in his eyes, "I'm so glad to see you two."

There were tears in his eyes, anyways – after when, as Sam went to answer a call from the chief of police, Dean hurried toward Cas and he backed away and whispered, "_Don't_," and Dean's face crumbled.

"Cas." Then, a little desperately, he whispered, "Please don't fly away, if that's what you're thinking. Not again."

Cas swallowed. He fought every urge to cry. "Don't worry about that."

His back was still tender – where they'd torn his wings off.

* * *

Cas was asleep the next morning.

_Asleep?_ That couldn't be right. He was draped over the desk, one arm hanging off it, the other pinned under his head.

Dean, half-awake, didn't give it much thought right away. He scooped his jeans off the floor and felt around for–

He froze. His pockets were empty. So was his jacket, draped over the recliner.

His Vicodin was gone.

At the drugstore downtown, the pharmacist politely informed him, fuming behind the counter, that his prescription had been cancelled.

He walked back to the car empty-handed. Inside, Sam was fussing with his computer in the back, and Dean said nothing for forty miles. When he looked in the rearview, Cas stared back, if only for a second.

Dean hadn't asked who'd cancelled it.

He already knew.

* * *

Dean started withdrawing around six.

By nine, he'd cocooned himself inside three blankets, and still he shivered. There was only so much he could do to fight a cold that was inside of him. All day he'd told himself he would talk to Cas,_ just for a few minutes_, but he couldn't. Every time he slowed to talk, Cas would speed up, weaving in front of Sam like a nervous motorist.

Around midnight, Dean went into town. He scored a hit off a bum under an overpass and didn't even bother crushing it. He popped it in his mouth and swallowed and just sat there, as relief fanned out across his body.

The bum, amused, said, "Shit. You were thirsty, huh, man?"

Back at the motel, Cas was awake. He looked exhausted. And, as Dean pulled out his phone, terrified.

Making sure Cas was watching, Dean put a call in right there and renewed his prescription. As he snapped his cell closed, Cas looked away.

"I don't understand," he whispered after an uncomfortable silence.

"That makes two of us," Dean replied, raising a cool eyebrow. The Vicodin had calmed his poor, baffled heart. "What'd you do with them, Cas?"

"Why does that matter?" Cas asked sadly. "You'll just be getting more tomorrow."

"True." Dean paused. "Still. That was quite the performance. First, you nearly kill me."

Cas bristled.

"Then," Dean continued, "you disappear for four months. Then you come back and hide my Vicodin. Or destroy it, or whatever it is angels who lie to their friends do. I wouldn't know," he said acidly. "You never fucking talk to me anymore."

"_Dean_," Cas said, sounding wounded. But he wouldn't look up.

"I hardly _know_ you at all," Dean said, determined to hurt Cas. And it worked. At Dean's tone, Cas' shoulders sagged, like the weight of it had crushed him flat.

"That's not true."

Dean let out a bitter laugh. "Then _say_ something. Tell me what's going on, Cas. _Humor me_, for a friggin' change."

There was a minute of quiet. In his bed, Sam groaned quietly, rolling over. His arm flopped off the side of the bed.

"You're angry with me," Cas said softly.

"Damn right I am."

Cas was still. And the longer the silence stretched, the more Dean realized Cas wasn't averting his eyes out of fear. It was out of _shame_.

"If I asked – if I needed it, would you believe in me again?"

"Cas. Look at me."

The noise that came out of Castiel made him grip his throat like he wanted to rip it out. "I can't," he choked, and Dean knew angels were never meant to sound this way.

"Listen. I _do_ believe in you." A tear beaded, unbidden, at the corner of his eye, because even if he'd spent months trying to convince himself in every way he could, God, how he did – Cas was wired into his chest, like an irreplaceable part. "Hell," Dean barked a bitter laugh. "I can do you one way worse than belief."

Immediately his heart thrummed. He almost took it back. It felt awful, admitting to Cas (and to himself, finally) what he really felt. Foreign, almost like a new taste in his mouth.

But he _couldn't_ take it back.

That would be worse.

"I don't understand. Why was it...after we..."

"I was stupid," Dean answered harshly, and Cas grimaced. "I thought I made a mistake with you, but Cas – I couldn't _breathe_ when I walked away. I never stopped believing in you because it wasn't your damn fault. I was just stupid and a coward, alright?"

Cas just shook his head, like he wanted to believe he was the blame, and Dean couldn't help it; he felt the flames jump inside of him.

"You don't know fear," he spat. "Not like this. I was stupid and made bad decisions, but what's your fucking excuse for this? You _knew_ I needed –"

"I know," Cas choked suddenly. Fat tears lined the bottom of his lids. "I'm so sorry. I had to, Dean, I had to."

Dean stopped.

"You weren't _you_," Cas continued. "You _must_ have known, Dean. You must have seen what it was doing to you. I just...didn't want you t-to..." A pause. He bit his lip, and said miserably, "I didn't know what else to do."

He sunk his face into his hands. He didn't make sound, and neither could Dean, for what felt like ages. Outside, past their open window, the night whispered softly with the spring wind, blowing the papers scattered on the desk. It was quiet. It was peaceful.

"I'm sorry, Cas," Dean whispered finally. Cas nodded, though it didn't matter.

Dean could say he was sorry a million times. But apologies were only words.

* * *

Dean was still wondering how often angels apologized to humans long after, when he was laying awake in bed later and Cas sat beside him.

Dean had expected that, and held his breath as Cas said, "What was it, Dean? What made you do it?"

"You don't want to know." What Dean didn't say was "I'm sorry" because the rejection was already there.

A heavy silence came and went. "That's not what I'm talking about," Cas whispered.

He meant the kiss, and deep down Dean had already known that; but Cas still ran his hand along Dean's cheek, the way he had under that streetlight, like he desperately wanted Dean to remember the rain thick on their tongues, every shaking breath they'd taken together.

As if he could forget.

Dean wished they'd stayed out in the rain and drowned. At least it'd been better then.

"Dean," Cas said, too much like pleading. The pain in his voice contrasted with the gentleness of his touch. Dean just closed his eyes.

"I think," Cas sighed, finally, "I know what it is."

Dean didn't answer – besides, he probably knew, too.

* * *

**Bloomington, Indiana; June**

They didn't mention it again. Cas started hunting with them again, and Dean got his pills back the very next day.

On Wednesday, he got into the Impala, keys in the ignition. But he didn't go anywhere. He had his hands on the wheel, feet on the pedals – and when dawn broke, he went back up to the motel room, took a shower and two Vicodin, and said good morning to Sam.

On Friday, Cas tripped on the curb and skinned his palms. Dean rushed over. "Are you–" he began, putting a hand on Cas' back –

Cas jerked up. A hand sliced across Dean's face, and his head snapped back. "_Don't touch me_," Cas was shouting, as Sam ran toward them.

"_Fuck_," Dean screamed, face throbbing. "What's _wrong_ with you!?"

Across the street, a woman pushing a stroller looked on in concern.

"What the hell was that?" Sam demanded, reaching their side. "Did he _hit_ you?"

Dean, scowling right at Cas, said, "Yeah."

Cas, staring back, said nothing for the rest of the day, no matter how they drilled and disparaged and coaxed him.

On Sunday – the first off day since March – Dean woke up at noon. A note in Sam's handwriting on the nightstand said "I'll be downtown if you need me."

Cas was at the edge of the bed.

For a defining moment, neither said anything. Until Cas took a deep breath. As if preparing himself.

"I need to tell you something."

* * *

Cas had suggested they go out to the Impala, parked right next to the support beams – assuming that the small space of the motel room wouldn't be enough for Dean.

And he'd been right.

"They think..._I_ did this?"

"You have to understand." Cas leaned against the hood, infuriatingly calm. "Before I left, I was already hunted. But now, I was considering falling. An angel can be put to death for that."

"Wh..." This couldn't be happening. Cas had to be lying somehow. _He had to be._ "Why? Did you wanna fall?"

Cas smiled sadly. "I failed, Dean. I failed humanity. But mostly, I failed you."

"_No_," Dean nearly shouted. "Damnit, Cas, you didn't fail _me_. _I_ failed _you_. And Sam, with my problems, and-and the drugs, and–"

"It's alright, Dean." Scandalized, Dean looked away. "They wanted somebody to blame."

"And they picked me," he finished, voice raw.

"Yes."

Dean choked slightly at the thought. "Are they gonna kill you, too?"

"Dean," Cas said softly. "They ripped out my wings."

"Oh." Dean swallowed. "That's wh-why...I touched your back..."

Cas nodded. "Yes."

"I'm sorry."

Cas smiled a little. "_I'm_ sorry. Had I been an angel, I could have broken your neck." Then, wistfully, he added, "If they hadn't, I would have. They didn't want me to have the satisfaction of it, I suppose."

Dean didn't bother trying to laugh, because this was just _too fucking much_. He dropped down to the hood, hands over his face. Cas touched his knee softly.

Nearing tears, Dean whispered, "Why didn't you _tell_ me?"

"I couldn't. You were already – you were already hurting, Dean. I _couldn't_."

"_Yes, you could_," Dean hissed, yanking away. But he couldn't will himself to be angry. He was almost too tired for it now.

"I'm sorry, Dean," Cas said quietly. "I'm sorry I couldn't be what you needed me to be."

Dean could barely force his mouth to move. A hot tear slid down past his lips. "Don't – don't you say that to me."

Cas just closed his eyes and leaned back on his hands, turned toward Heaven; under the bald sun, his beauty was devastated. His body had taken the permanent shape of someone beaten, and everything was numb because Dean knew he'd been the one who'd ripped up Cas' edges.

Dean covered his eyes. A broken sob tore from him.

"I'm sorry I let this happen to you," Cas whispered, and that hurt Dean to hear, more than anything.

"Why can't you just leave?" His voice was choked. "Look what I've done to you. I broke you, Cas, I broke you oh God."

Cas said nothing.

"Why didn't you stop me?"

"Because," Cas said, hardly audible. "I wanted you to stop yourself."

Dean swiped a finger under his flooded eyes, and bitterly laughed. "You poor bastard. You've got too much faith in me."

All around them, the sunlight was steadily cooking the asphalt. When Dean saw Cas' shadow flowing across the Impala onto the asphalt – with two stunted, feathered stumps twitching in his back – he folded his face in his hands. The heat melted over their skin; and Dean could barely feel it but oh God, Cas could, Cas could feel everything because he was fallen for good, for Dean, and archangels were going to kill Dean for that, and if he could have just walked out of his body and lead them far away from Cas, he would have, in a second.

Tears fell hard and heavy down his face like stars through the atmosphere, like meteors.

Like an angel out of Heaven.

"Dean," Cas whispered, and Dean shook his head. "Dean, the fault is mine, not yours. _Please_, stop punishing yourself."

When Dean leveled their gazes, Cas' eyes were wet, too. He swallowed thickly and said, "They're coming for me, Cas, for what I did to you – I _did_ hurt you, and I'm going to be killed, don't you _get_ that? I'm running on borrowed time. So give a...a dying man his last wish, alright? Because I'm going to give you what you want, even if you want me to get away from you–"

"_Dean_–"

" – if that's what you ask, I promise." Cas didn't answer, and Dean slammed a hand down on the hood. It shook, and when Cas looked back at him, Dean was the portrait of something lost, trembling in a coat of flop sweat. Dried tears stuck to his cheeks. "For Christ's sake, Cas. What do you _want_?"

Cas appeared haunted, and Dean knew it wasn't the right thing to ask – until Cas made it worse, made it so much worse, the worst possible thing, when he held Dean's gaze and said brokenly, "_You_."

* * *

"Do you love him?"

Dean looked up, brow creased. "What?"

"I said," Sam said, with extra diction, "do you love him?"

"...Who?" Dean managed.

Sam tipped his head back and sighed. "_Dean._"

"_What?_" Dean scowled. "Jesus, Sammy, what am I – you don't just...you don't just _ask_ a question like that."

"Really? What would you like me to do, then?" Sam asked, arching a cool brow. "_Sing_ it to you?"

"Well," Dean considered this, "you _do_ have a beautiful voice–" Sam swatted him in annoyance, and Dean grinned. "Don't be ashamed, little brother! Flaunt it!"

"How's this: are you. In love. With. Castiel. Angel of the lord."

Dean nodded. "Much better. And how's _this_: what kind of fucking question is that?"

"An _honest_ one," Sam laughed. "You think I'm _blind_, Dean? You two stare at each other like you...I dunno, _finally found the piece that was missing_, or whatever. He sleeps in your _bed_."

"So?" Dean desperately ignored the burning in his face.

"So," Sam repeated, "that's a Nicholas Sparks book waiting to be written."

Dean paused, appearing deep in thought. "Dude," he declared at last, "you read Nicholas Sparks books?"

"Oh my _god_."

"I mean, the long hair I can live with, but _The Notebook_ is just a _little_ too feminine."

"You know what?" Sam rose from his chair. "I think I already know the answer."

A wave of paranoia passed over Dean; he almost couldn't help it. "Oh yeah?" he said, struggling to control his tone. "And what's that?"

Sam crossed the room. "Well," he said, picking up his phone with painstaking slowness. Finally, he smiled at Dean. "You never said no."

* * *

"Dean." Cas turned toward him, and their knees bumping together jerked Dean back like a touch from a hot iron. He didn't dare to approach Cas' gaze and just shook his head, hands curling and uncurling in his lap.

"You don't understand," Dean said wretchedly, through tears. "I was never supposed to–" His traitorous voice abandoned him, and every thought was screaming differently, so loud that it outright terrified him.

"I can't, Cas."

A hand fell onto his shoulder, but Dean couldn't look. He kept his mouth in a hard, defiant line, but his voice had betrayed his despair.

"Why do you do this to yourself?" Cas whispered.

Dean felt God's hands wrap around his throat. "I'm sorry," he choked. It took everything to wrench away, out of Cas' damning orbit, but somehow he managed. "I think I should...go."

Something in Cas visibly broke, and Dean turned away before he could thoroughly see what his rejection had done to Cas. But Cas' face – the way it just _fell apart_ – refused to leave Dean's head, and he found himself leaning up against a support beam instead, and held on like it was the only thing keeping him attached to the ground.

"I'm sorry," he said again, suffocating. What he didn't say was _For everything_, but it didn't matter.

Where Cas stood, behind him, there was nothing but quiet.


	4. everything after

**A/N**: Final chapter. (Happy, mushy stuff with a really sad ending.)

* * *

Right before he kissed Dean, something in Cas' eyes burned until Dean could feel nothing else, nothing but the last hoarse breath he took before Cas' lips were on his and they were kissing, right there in the parking lot.

It was a lot of things mixed together – fury, love, pain, the way everything they'd ever wanted to say to each other came out, without a word, and most of all, accuracy, like everything in their lives had amounted to this and they were _ready _(they weren't, not at all.) It was hands gripping tight to anything, and the thought of separating like agony. But really, it wasn't a lot of things at all; it wasn't Dean holding onto Cas like he was the last thing binding him to earth. It wasn't Sam coming off the bus at the corner and spotting them – and sitting down at the shelter with a smile on his face. It wasn't the woman across the lot telling her husband "those kinds of things" weren't proper in the eyes of God. It wasn't anything.

"But," Dean gasped, into the small gap between their lips. "If we do this, I'll…"

And Cas leaned in, kissing and kissing him, until Dean couldn't speak anymore.

"If they're taking you, I'm going with you," Cas promised, over and over again. "I'm going with you."

It wasn't anything.

It was just Dean and Cas, together.

* * *

They stayed in bed for three days.

Sam drifted in and out, leaving cups of coffee and newspapers on the nightstand while Dean was sleeping. He never asked questions or truly spoke a word to them – he understood a lot from the intermittent glances and nods from Cas – but the second night, when, even asleep, Dean was still racked with shudders from withdrawal, Sam pressed a hand to his brother's forehead. He hadn't been testing for a fever, but the skin still graced his palm like fire, and he turned away, eyes spilling over with tears.

He dug the prescription card out of Dean's jacket and when Cas heard the triumph in Sam's voice as he called in the cancellation, he knew they'd won.

When he was awake, Dean didn't eat – he couldn't really stomach anything. He kept the covers up to his chin and focused on breathing while his body caved in on itself. The heatwave passed, and the sun cooled off, but he was a little worse for wear. Several times he woke up reaching for Cas, and Cas never separated from him, for an instant. He was down to his dress shirt to accommodate for the blankets, and Dean often picked absently at its buttons with his head on Cas' shoulder, undoing them to distract from the painful riptide throwing his body against rocks. But Dean couldn't hold his hands steady enough; so for that, he'd settled with lathing kisses along Cas' collarbone and neck, wherever he could.

His touch was sloppy and he muttered into Cas' skin broken, lost things that Cas had to convince himself Dean didn't mean. Once or twice Dean lifted his head and, taking Cas in with unfiltered wonder, said, "You're beautiful" and Cas could hear how much the chemicals in Dean's system had faded.

On the third day, Dean's fever went down. Sam, who was working at his laptop, said to Cas, "He loves you, you know. Even if he won't admit it."

Cas knew. But still, he asked: "How do you know?"

Sam smiled. "I've known for a while. Trust me, he's _obvious_ about it."

Beside Cas, Dean murmured softly. His arms, wrapped around the pillow, pulled it tighter to his body.

"How long have you?"

"Loved him?"

"Yeah."

"I'm not sure," Cas answered honestly, and Sam didn't push. "Do you?"

"Of course," Sam said. "I mean – yeah, he's a pain in the ass. But he's my brother."

Voice thick, Dean grumbled, "I can _hear_ you, dickhead."

"Dean," Sam called loudly. "I love you very much even though you're a short and irritating little shit."

"Shut it," Dean growled. "I'm going back to bed." And a few minutes more, he was fast asleep.

"What's not to love, right?" Sam asked, with a fond smile. Cas smiled back. For a change, or at least for the moment, he was quite certain things would turn out alright.

* * *

Dean had never taken Cas for the restless type.

"Stop that." Dean turned away, focusing very intently on some obscure news story open on Sam's laptop. From behind him, Cas pushed a hand through Dean's hair, and that got him to laugh. "Quit it. Fuck, you are such a girl."

He couldn't resist it much more though; a few minutes later Castiel had him pinned, kissing him breathless on top of the sheets. It occurred to Dean that they were alone – after he'd stopped withdrawing, Sam agreed to give them some time alone for the afternoon – and that, at the moment, he was rather hard against Cas' thigh.

He slid a hand up Cas' shirt, but only managed to get so far before Cas huffed, "Dean."

"What?" he said innocently. Cas, while a little miffed, was responding nicely, his body breaking out into pleasing goosebumps under Dean's touch.

Cas leaned in, and kissed Dean's lips, his cheek, his throat, his shoulder.

"Oh God," Dean gasped, voice bare and ragged and _needy_, and Cas swallowed his lips up.

They didn't talk for a while; Dean worked his hands into Cas' hair, caressed his face, sighed as they went. Finally, Cas pulled back, stretching a bit; the opportunistic Dean popped up and peppered kisses all along the exposed column of Cas' neck and – of all possibilities – Cas _giggled_.

"Does that..._tickle_?" Dean asked, in barely masked delight.

"Yes," Cas answered cryptically, though his voice was broken by laughter. "Dean," he scolded, moving to get up, but Dean flipped them over and blew across the hollow of Cas' shoulder. "_Dean_."

"Hmm." Dean sat up, gazing down at Cas. "This is nice."

"It is, actually."

"I like seeing you like this. Lying underneath me."

"Don't get used to it."

"_Oh_." Dean's mouth quirked. He bent down, holding himself up on his elbows. "You saying you'd top me, Cas?"

Cas didn't reply – he likely didn't have too good of an idea what _topping_ was – but he smirked, and Dean blew out a laugh. "Bet you'd like that, huh? Me under you, gasping for breath while you fucked me."

"Dean." And Cas actually _blushed_.

"No," Dean said, "I'll bet...you'd like it if _I_ was on top, with you inside of me. Oh shit. You'd _love_ that, watching me ride you."

"Yes," Cas answered, slightly breathy, and they continued, kissing and breathing and gasping together, as if nothing else could have mattered.

Which was almost true.

Later that night, Cas had fallen asleep and Dean had taken to researching when Sam returned with a stack of library books.

He glanced at Cas. "Since when do you angels sleep?"

Dean considered the truth; but he wasn't sure he was ready to ruin this. Not yet. "When they're happy."

Sam turned up an eyebrow, incredulous. "Jesus Christ." He laughed. "Since when did you become a sap?"

Dean could only smile. "Shut up."

* * *

**Bellevue, Washington; July**

Once when they were together at night, Dean had felt Cas' hair brush his chin when he said "I love you" for the first time.

He hadn't exactly said it to mean it; it was nearly three AM and it was more just to test the words out, feel their texture, how each one sat in his mouth; previously, the thought alone had been enough to make his throat close up. He almost couldn't _bear_ the _possibility_ of it. Three AM, he found, was a good time to practice, to practice making the whole thing feel less like a runaway train and more like it should: falling in love.

He'd started small. Dividing it up word by word, then saying "I need you" over and over (he wouldn't be surprised if he woke somebody up,) then saying "You're what I need." Stuff like that. Until finally, _finally_, he took a breath and said, "I love you."

There was a significant pause. Sam kept snoring, and Cas, tangled in Dean's arms, didn't stir. Feeling braver, he said it again. "I love you." Then again. "I love you." Until it got easier, until the dawn broke and he was so elated, he almost woke Cas up to tell him. _I love you so fucking much._

He didn't have to. In the morning, when he came up behind Cas in the bathroom and hugged up, Cas set down his toothbrush, smiled, and said, "Hello, Dean. And just to be clear, I love you, too."

And Dean, overcome, buried his face in Cas' shoulder. (Sam may or may not have ruined the moment by going, "_Awwww!_" from the room.)

Things were perfect.

Until they weren't.

* * *

The archangels closed in about a month later.

By then, Sam knew. They _had_ to tell him, and they did, together; and Sam broke down, into horrible, wretched tears. He barely spoke to them for days. Until, finally, he shouted, "_Why didn't you tell me?_" And Dean whispered, "I'm sorry," because, even sober, he _still_ hurt Sam, and that hurt most of all.

Sam recovered, bit by bit. But their cheerful bliss was gone forever. They put up angel sigils, Googled and researched and read as much as they could on defending themselves against archangels – but there was nothing. "Nothing we can do," Cas whispered.

"No," Sam choked and, unthinkingly, he threw his laptop across the room. "There has to be something." Cas shook his head. "_There has to be!_"

"We can fight," Dean said. Sam stared at him, begging him to say more, and Dean, pathetically, burst into tears. Why not? He had nothing left to lose. He'd let his little brother down _again_. He was going to be dead soon. The love of his life had suffered a fate worse than death. So _why the fuck not cry?_

"I'm..." Sam gripped his head like he could tear it off. "Dean, I'm _sorry_. I'm sorry. I'm sorry this is happening a-_again_."

Fruitlessly, Dean wiped his eyes. "Don't be. _Please_."

Sam nodded, struggling to catch his breath. He sunk down to his bed. He stared at the floor, and after a minute, didn't shed another tear. Because finally, it seemed, he realized what was to come. He understood it was pointless.

"This is it," he whispered.

Nobody said anything after that.

* * *

"Are they coming soon?" Dean asked softly, the next morning. His hand absently ran through Cas' hair.

The hesitation was slight, but he still caught it. "Yes."

He nodded; he didn't bother with saying he was afraid, because he got the feeling Cas already knew.

Through the blinds, they watched the corners of the early morning sky slowly begin to purple, and the glow of the stars become a softer, mute yellow. When it was nearly five AM – two hours and Dean hadn't slept a wink, not wanting to miss a moment of Cas so thoroughly embedded against him – Cas took Dean's hand from his stomach and kissed between the fingers. Dean found that all he could do was bury his face into Cas' dark, messy crop of hair.

"You love me, right?" Dean asked suddenly, surprising them both.

Cas turned his head so their eyes could meet. Softly, he said, "No."

Dean looked at him in disbelief, until in an instant everything about Cas' expression changed, softened, and he added –

"It's more than that."

And oh, it was enough.

* * *

Reports from the next town over told of unspeakable things: babies being born with teeth growing out of their arms, people dissolving into swarms of flies, tree branches wrapping around peoples' throats and suffocating them. They knew what it meant: the archangels were close.

That night, Dean broke down. Cas, who was down in the Impala – he couldn't bear facing Dean, not _now_ – heard a knock on the window. It was Sam.

"_Please_," he choked, eyes glistening. "_Talk_ to him, Cas." And, up in the motel room, Cas did.

Not that Dean listened. He sat, cold and locked on his bed, indifferent to anything. Finally, Cas touched him, and Dean burst to life, punching Cas right in the face.

They stopped. Then they both reached for each other, kissing brokenly and desperately and hopelessly.

"They're going to kill me," Dean gasped somewhere in between. Cas frantically worked the buttons of his shirt and told him to be quiet, but Dean twisted and landed another punch on Cas' cheek.

"I'll be dead," he tried to say, before Cas urgently pushed a kiss onto his lips. Dean didn't want it to, but he was somehow letting that one touch from Castiel

Cas hefted them both onto the bed the moment they were bare.

They didn't make love. But Cas never ventured far away, and studied him, hands to tan skin, like he was trying to commit each detail to memory.

Dean started to cry when he realized and Cas kissed him and swallowed every sob from him, until they were both equal parts tears. Then Dean was up on his elbows and holding Cas against him so every inch of their heated skin was flush, as the kissing became something desperate – and then Dean worked himself inside of Cas, and they _were_ making love, shockingly alive for what could have been the first time.

The same noises that rose out of Dean did from Cas, his body working against Dean's perfectly. He kissed Dean every time their eyes met,

After, Dean couldn't help it. "What if all of this...is for nothing?"

Cas didn't answer, and eventually Dean went to sleep.

* * *

When he finally fell, the rain was full of his blood.

The archangels tasked with killing him, Ezekiel and Zadkiel, flit away before an angel blade can be sunk into either one of them.

He shook and shook that empty shell, that limp body by the familiar coat that only clung to dead flesh now, and called his name even though he already knew. He shouted in his face but the eyes didn't open, the body didn't crackle to life, and he felt tears mixing with the rainwater.

Sam screamed and screamed even over the thunderous voice of the rain.

When the sword plunged into Cas, his Grace didn't rip out of him in a white flash. He died human. He'd spent his last breaths in Dean's arms, pleading with him _– "Dean, please, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I tr-tr-tried–_" And everything inside of him, everything that he was, was gone and was never coming back.

"I love you," Dean choked. "And I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, Cas." Nothing. He raised his voice. "Do you hear me? I'm sorry! _Cas!_"


End file.
